


have i the right

by purplefennels7



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Inspired By, as always, kohlberg's stages of morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefennels7/pseuds/purplefennels7
Summary: being named commander is all alexander lessar has ever wanted. he never even considered what the consequences might be.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is my first time posting my original stuff on ao3, I hope it doesn't die yikes  
> let me know what y'all think

“General Lessar?” Alexander looks up from the report he's reading to see a messenger standing in the entrance to his tent. “Commander Hogarth requests your presence in his tent.” Alexander’s up and pulling on boots and jacket before the messenger finishes his sentence. Maybe it'll finally be his chance to lead his company into battle. Ever since his best friend, James, had been given a command two days earlier, he’d been yearning for the same chance, to finally receive the glory that was expected of every soldier. Alexander dismisses the messenger, a scrawny thing that looks not a day over eighteen, hardly battlefield material-though he supposes that every new recruit must look like that a some point-and hurries out of his tent into the bustling camp. 

Despite the growing darkness, the camp is alive with activity and he gets respectful nods from the men as he passes. He can see the pinpricks of light from the enemy’s campfires, just over the ridge protecting their campsite from artillery fire. A cold wind has sprung up from the northeast, biting through the thin fabric of his jacket and making him shiver, though he’s not sure if he’s trembling from the cold or from sheer nerves.

The guards outside Commander Hogarth’s tent salute Alexander as he approaches, and hold open the tent flap for him to enter. He winces and snaps to attention as he realizes that he’s the last to arrive, and a circle of commanders and generals are already seated before Hogarth’s steel desk.

“At ease, Lessar,” Hogarth says easily. “Have a seat, and we can get started.” Alexander relaxes-he doesn’t seem upset-and takes a seat where James has saved him a chair.

“What’re we here for?” he whispers to James, who shrugs. 

“No clue. Maybe it’s strategy...seems like everyone’s got a command here.” Alexander frowns-he doesn’t. But...if he’s been called to a meeting with all the top commanders, is it finally his turn? James notices his expression and grins, clapping him on the back and saying, “C’mon, Alex, I’m sure it’ll be your time. Why else would Hogarth invite you here?” Heartened by his friend’s voicing his thoughts, Alexander sits back and surveys the room. James is right-all these men are seasoned commanders, veterans of battle after battle, except James and himself. 

Before he can retreat into his thoughts, James is passing him a stack of folders, each emblazoned with the words EXECUTIVE ORDERS. His heart leaps into his throat as he takes the one labeled with his name and passes the stack to Commander Scott, sitting at his right. He almost opens the folder in excitement, but a glance around the room reveals that no one else has done so. He quickly drops it into his lap and folds his hands in what he hopes is an unsuspicious fashion. 

“Alright, men,” Commander Hogarth says. “We begin our assault tomorrow. Commanders Scott, Huan, and Laurens will lead the frontal attack. Generals Ednew and Leve will attack on the flanks. With Commander Eadig’s cavalry in reserve, that should take care of their main body. Intelligence reports a force of several thousand approaching from the north. It should take them about a day to arrive, so our goal tomorrow is to destroy their main body before reinforcements arrive. If we can do that, destroying them should be easy. General Lessar, you have the honor to lead your battalion in the frontal attack.” Alexander can barely hold back his grin as he responds, “Yes, sir.” He can see James smiling out of the corner of his eye as Hogarth continues, “You’ve shown great promise in your leadership of our rearguard, and I believe that you will be able to handle this field command finely.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander can’t keep from saying. “I hope that I will be able to carry out m orders and serve my country.” Hogarth allows himself the barest hint of a smile before continuing to outline strategy, but Alexander can’t seem to pay attention any longer. He finally has a command, finally has the chance to earn his glory and do what’s expected of him as a soldier. He immediately begins to imagine scenario after scenario of himself following the orders in his lap, trying to guess what patterns are scribbled onto the sheets of parchment in Hogarth’s spidery hand, imagining himself leading his men to glory. He’s only jerked out of his thoughts when Hogarth dismisses them and James laughs and claps him on the shoulder, saying “I knew you’d get it, Alex! Haven’t I told you, over and over and over, that your thing about following literally every single order you get exactly to the letter would catch his eye?” Alexander grins at his friend and jokes, “Nah, it’s definitely just my charming personality.”

“No, it’s totally the orders thing. Seriously, Alex, sometimes I think you’ve never broken a rule in your life. Every time you’re ordered to do something you get really really annoyed if someone tries to tell you not to do it. Remember that one time I told you to take a break and go to the pub with me and Monty and you basically bit my head off because  _ Eadig told me to finish these reports _ ? And speak of the devil, there he is.” Alexander spins around and finds himself face-to-face with the legendary Commander Eadig.

“Congratulations on the command, General Lessar. I’m sure you’ll lead brilliantly.” Alexander can only stammer out a “Thank you, sir” to such high praise from Evannor Eadig himself, the champion of Helm’s Hill and the Battle of the Pelennor, rumored to be a descendant of the first king of Cavendhras (though that may have just been a rumor). 

“So much for that charming personality,” James whispers as Eadig walks off, leaving a rather tongue-tied Alexander in his wake.

“Shut up, James.”


	2. two

Alexander’s up at the crack of dawn the next day; though he’s not fighting, James and many of his friends are, and they’re scheduled to leave at 0530 to prepare for their attacks. As he was perusing his orders, Alexander had been reminded, yet again, why he’d been thrilled to serve under Commander Hogarth. Hogarth was considered the best strategist in Cavendhras, and Alexander always considers each order he receives from him to be the most well-planned direction ever, and tries to follow it to the letter. If the top strategist in your entire nation gives what seems to be an illogical order, whatever. He’s got to have some bigger purpose there. At least, that’s Alexander’s philosophy. So far, it seems to be working.

Alexander can hear the sounds of voices and horses’ hooves outside his tent as he dresses, opting for a plain green coat instead of his braided and epauletted dress jacket. When he’d asked Hogarth for permission to see James off, he’d been told that he could, as long as he stayed at the ridge and observed.  _ Wear something inconspicuous, _ Hogarth had said.  _ Don’t want to lose you before you even get to command. _

Fully dressed, with quill and parchment for reports in hand, Alexander leaves his tent and steps into organized chaos. Already, men are shouldering rifles, picking up lances, and assembling into the five battalions outlined in Hogarth’s plans. He finds James outside his tent, saddling his horse and looking apprehensive. 

“Morning, James. You ready?”

“Nervous, but yeah, I guess. I’ve just got a bit of a bad feeling about this. It seems like something’s going to go wrong. It's just too quiet to be the morning of a battle, you know? I always would've thought that it would be more...tense, I suppose.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, James. It's, like, the calm before the storm, or whatever the saying is.”

“I sure hope so.” James smiles wanly and climbs onto his horse. “Let’s go.” Apprehension growing in his heart, Alexander walks beside James as he rides through camp to take his place at the head of his assembling battalion. Fog hangs in the air, providing cover for the advance, and the infantry columns are just barely visible on the ridge above them. Alexander can hear Commander Eadig’s voice as he speaks to his cavalry, hidden behind the ridge, as James signals to his battalion and they begin to move. The fog muffles the sounds of thousands of infantrymen’s steps, until all that can be heard is a dull thump, and James is right, it’s hard to imagine that the tranquil moor might soon be the site of a battle that could change the course of history. 

As they approach the ridge, Alexander looks up at James and taps the side of his boot to get his attention.

“James...I need to go. Hogarth told me to go up on the ridge and ‘observe.’” James nods, and reaches a hand down to clasp Alexander’s tightly.

“Stay safe, Alex.” Alexander squeezes his hand and replies, “You too. See you on the other side.” A heartbreaking expression of grief sweeps across James’s face for a moment, so quickly that Alexander might have imagined it, and he clings to his hand for another second before letting go and turning back to the path to battle. Alexander stands there at the foot of the ridge until James disappears into the fog, heart heavy in his chest, before he turns and trudges up the ridge toward the dark blotches he knows to be heavy artillery, ready to fire down in advance of the attack.

“Good morning, Major,” Alexander says to Major Malik as he reaches the top of the ridge and finds the artillery commander looking out into the slowly clearing fog. “How is it looking?” 

“Well, to tell you the truth, not good. I don’t think Hogarth thought this one through-look.” Unwillingly, Alexander turns his eyes to the horizon and sees a massive blotch of dark green uniforms, at odds with the bright navy blue of their own. Their force is about three-fourths of the size of the enemy’s, and the difference seems even more exaggerated from above.

“Come, Malik, it doesn’t look too bad. These are Hogarth’s orders, he must’ve thought this through.” Malik doesn’t look quite convinced, returning to studying the horizon. Far below, Alexander can see the three infantry companies forming into columns and loading rifles, and far to the east, the dark blotch that is James’s company is moving slowly toward the enemy right. Malik, too, has his eyes on James’s and General Leve’s companies, and as they near the enemy flanks, he signals for his men to prime their guns. One by one, gunners raise their hands in readiness, and with a final look out at the battlefield, he signals to fire. 

The deafening roar of eighty guns firing at once rings out, and shell after shell flies from the ridge to fall devastatingly among the enemy columns. The guns roar again as rifle fire cracks from the infantry companies below, and Alexander can see James and General Leve leading their companies carefully towards the enemy flanks. The steady crackle of rifles underscores the rhythmic boom of gunfire, until all at once the big guns go silent as the infantry charges. Alexander keeps his eyes on James’s company, noting that the enemy’s attention is fixed on the charging infantry. He finds himself walking to the right edge of the ridge and peering into the distance, trying to pinpoint James at the head of his battalion. It’s no use, they’re too far. He looks around desperately, and spots a spyglass poking out of an artilleryman’s pocket.

“Lieutenant, give me that spyglass,” he demands, and the man hands it over wordlessly. Pressing the glass to his eye, Alexander peers towards James’s company, and quickly spots him, sitting high on his bay horse, without a whit of the apprehension from earlier in his gaze. Out of the other eye, he sees the infantry crash into the enemy lines, and James draws his sword and charges, leading his battalion right into the enemy flank. Alexander nearly drops his gaze as blood flies from the edge of James’s sword as he drives into the surprised army; it’s so, so hard to see his friend of so many years killing so closely. Sure, they’d been in rearguard skirmishes, even border fights before the outbreak of war, but never in such close, brutal combat. At first, James seems to fight unopposed, his battalion leaving a trail of dead behind it as it spreads into the flanking forces, and Alexander foolishly believes that it will last. But it doesn’t last, never could last. 

Alexander sees the exact moment when the right company turns at last to face the onrushing attack, as it encircles James’s forces, and he sees the look of dawning panic on his friend’s face as he realizes his mistake too late. He almost wants to scream at him to retreat, to turn and flee while he still can, but James, brave, stubborn, reckless James fights on, even as the enemy closes in. James’s men close ranks around him, loyal to a fault, and Alexander wishes to be down there, to be fighting next to James, to somehow protect him from the fate he himself had predicted. But he can only watch as James’s men start to fall, each taking an enemy with him, and the blood of both sides drenches the light sandy soil with crimson. 

Both forces dwindle together, fighting to a standstill, until only James is left, fighting a fruitless battle against the enemy commander. Alexander looks around wildly, searching for any way to save him, but there’s no hope. Eadig’s cavalry could never get there in time, and artillery fire would just obliterate the one person he’s trying to save. He can only watch and pray, separated from the action by distance, just as if there was a wall of glass between him and his oldest friend. James’s horse has been cut out from under him, and he’s locked in combat with the opposing general. Alexander hardly dares to breathe for fear that taking his eyes off the battle would doom his friend.

And then, all at once, it’s over, in a flurry of swords and the single crack of a rifle. James seems to fall in slow motion, collapsing into the bloodstained dirt with blood spreading across his shirt and victory still in his eyes. His opponent topples beside him, with James’s sword hilt in his chest. A young rifleman sprints through the ring of bodies to collapse by his commander’s side, grief written on his face as he kisses his commander’s forehead, at the exact same time as Alexander screams James’s name, and only Major Malik grabbing him by the arm prevents him from running to his side, and woe betide anyone who stands in his way. 

“Lessar, it’s over!” Malik shouts in his face, and Alexander looks out at the rest of the battlefield through a sheen of tears. The enemy force, significantly smaller, is retreating, and three bedraggled blue columns are streaming towards the ridge. It all seems surreal, like it’s happening miles away. Alexander turns away, tears blinding him, grief clouding his mind. Unbidden, his farewell to James rings in his head.  _ I’ll see you on the other side. _ He’d been so sure that they’d win, so sure that he’d be able to talk to James again, to waste time talking late into the night and forget about everything except each other. And now James is gone, along with his whole battalion, and Alexander will never see him again. He turns and stumbles blindly down the ridge back towards camp.


	3. three

Commander Hogarth is waiting for Alexander at the entrance to the camp, expecting his report on the events. Alexander does his best to ignore him-he really, really doesn’t want to deal with Hogarth. His plans got James killed, and Alexander doesn’t think he could talk to him calmly, just give his report like the perfect general he’s supposed to be, like nothing had ever happened. He does a good job at ignoring him right up until Hogarth grabs his arm as he tries to walk past him.

“Alexander,” he says, and he stops, because Hogarth, to the best of his memory, has never called him by his actual name. “Alexander, what happened out there?”

“James is dead,” Alexander says, and hearing those words in his own voice makes it real. He lets out a sob and tries to pull out of Hogarth’s grasp, but his commander holds on.

“James Ednew? Your friend?”

“How many other Jameses are there?” Alexander snaps, tears blurring his vision. He sees Hogarth wince, but can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m sorry, Alexander. Is there anything-” 

“Can you leave me alone? They were your orders, you know.” And with that parting shot, Alexander yanks his arm out of Hogarth’s grasp and sprints to his tent, leaving Hogarth looking sadly after him and turning to meet the returning soldiers with a heavy heart.

Alexander bursts into his tent and collapses on the bed without bothering to take off his boots or jacket. Everywhere he looks seems to remind him of James, whether it be the bonfires burning merrily outside, around which they would have spent hours talking, or the table in the tent, where they’d drink away their troubles and dare each other to do the most ridiculous things, or the bed, where Alexander had spent hours lying, staring at the fabric of the tent swaying above him as he talked to James, sitting at his desk with a glass of whiskey. He barely stops himself from going to the stash of whiskey under his bed and just drinking away the tears, because he knows he has to do something, anything, to end this. So he lets himself cry, sobbing into his pillow for over an hour, until his sobs turn into hiccups and finally stop, leaving a pit of emptiness in his chest, and the feeling of having half his heart torn out and left on the battlefield stronger than ever. And then he starts thinking. 

The only thing Alexander knows is that he can’t possibly go through with what he’s been ordered. He’d seen with his own eyes how Hogarth’s famed strategy had finally failed, how so many others, on both sides, were probably sitting in their tents with the same pit of emptiness gnawing away at them. How so many mothers and fathers and husbands and wives and children would be getting the same letters that James’s parents would get, and some part of each of their souls would be missing for the rest of their lives. Sure, it’s an inescapable part of war, and of life, but having that emptiness chewing away for the rest of his life is something he’ll never be able to escape, and knowing that tomorrow he might be the one causing it is making him sick. Alexander can see his parents, his brother, Ben, getting that letter, that he’s been killed, maybe even in the same way that James died. He can see them, one by one, collapsing under the weight of grief. And even if he survived, he would’ve led his men willingly into death. Every one of his several hundred men was a James to someone else, who would blame Alexander for his death in the same way Alexander blames Hogarth for James’s.  _ Have I the right to lead my men into danger just to fulfill these orders? Have I the right to blindly follow this order when it’ll cause so much pain? Have I the right to jeopardize the lives of so many for so little gain?  _

“No,” Alexander says aloud, surprising himself. “No, I do not. And I will not. These men deserve to live just as much as James did, and I can’t throw their lives away to keep my command, to keep, what, just following Hogarth’s orders like a blind man? It’s a pointless fight in a pointless war, and it can’t keep going like this. It doesn’t matter which side I’m on, or which side anyone’s on. No one should have to live with this kind of guilt, or this kind of grief.”

Alexander gets up and goes to each commander leading a battalion the next day, and instructs them not to charge or open fire. He has a plan that he’s hoping will end the war. He goes back to his tent and makes preparations. He’s either going to be the most famous diplomat, or the most infamous general, in the history of Cavendhras, and he’s hoping to be the first.


	4. four

Alexander wakes even earlier than he did the previous day, and for a second, everything seems alright with the world before the fog of sleep dissipates. But then reality hits like a bucket of ice water-James is dead, and Alexander’s preparing to walk into the pages of history as either a martyr or a hero. He puts on his full dress uniform, throwing on a long coat to conceal it, and tucks the thing he’d made the previous night into the inner pocket. There’s an odd sense of emptiness rattling around in his chest as he walks back into the world, as he sees the blank looks concealing the earthshaking lines of grief written across so many faces, and he’s reminded why he’s making this choice. Something squeezes inside of him as he passes James’s tent, where just the previous day-it seems so long ago-he’d been consoling his friend that they would be seeing each other again, now dark and lifeless, just like the hole in his heart that James had left when he’d fallen out of Alexander’s life. He walks a little faster, making sure to take a long path around Hogarth’s tent-the last thing he wants is for his commander to find him. This is out of Hogarth’s hands.

Alexander takes his place at the front of his battalion, forgoing a horse. It, too, reminds him too much of James, and the time they’d had together. He’d gone to each man under his command the night before, and told them his plans. Most of them had said that he was insane, but that they would go along with him. Two had refused to accept unless they could go with him. He’d refused. This was something he had to do alone.

As Alexander leads his battalion down the ridge, Commander Eadig grabs his arm from the head of his cavalry.

“General, do you still intend to do this?” Alexander nods silently, preparing to defend his plan. “Then I wish you the best of luck. If anyone can do it, it’s you.” Alexander looks up at Eadig with surprise, but he just smiles sadly.

“General, I have known our late General Ednew for almost as long as you have. Believe me, his death...he is not someone replaceable, for me or for you. And if you can stop the endless cycle of war, we would all be grateful.” At Alexander’s raised eyebrow, he continues, “Yes, even Hogarth. He has complained of the excessive tenacity of the Evenellians, and I am sure he would be thrilled with an end to hostilities.”

“No one should have to experience the grief that you and I and so many others have, sir. Not even our so-called enemy.” Eadig smiles.

“Wise words, for one so young. Go, and may the best of luck follow. Live up to the memory of our James.” Alexander complies, some of the weight lifting from his chest, and he almost hears James’s voice, saying  _ Oh, Alex, I told you he wasn’t that intimidating, and you didn’t listen. _

Alexander holds up a hand to stop his battalion as they reach the bottom of the ridge, and they fall back in line with the other two. The cavalry stand at the top of the ridge, with Eadig at their head. Alexander looks back briefly, catches his eye, and smiles. Then he lays down his sword and rifle, pulls off his jacket, and reveals the white flag of parley hidden within. Holding the flag in one hand, he walks towards the Evenellian lines.

A rather confused-looking commander walks out under an identical flag to meet him between the two armies. Once the other is in earshot, Alexander lowers his flag.

“I am General Alexander Lessar of Cavendhras, and I would like to negotiate a peace.”


End file.
